


Beautiful

by meepbeep



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Les Mis - Freeform, M/M, also you should anticipate sarcastic tags, in which meepbeep writes a thing at an ungodly hour, just a warning, poetic kittens, you people should get used to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meepbeep/pseuds/meepbeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is beautiful.</p><p>First ever fic on AO3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful

He is beautiful.

From the top of his head, where a delicate crown of baby’s breath and buttercups rests upon chestnut waves, to the tips of his Toms-covered toes, he is radiant. Always has been, always will be.

You love his lips, pinker and sweeter than ripe strawberries, pressed to your own.

You love his sprinkling of freckles that coats his shoulders like a fresh flurry of snow.

You love his eyes, olive flecked with copper and gold, dark and light all at once.

But mostly, you love his hands.

Nimble fingers, far too long for the rest of his relative smallness, curled about a pen, bruised blue and black by ink and effort.

Blunt nails, occasionally chewed to the quick by an overwhelming anxiety.

A coarse writers’ callous, once mistaken by you for a dislocated joint, on his ring finger.

His right hand darts across page after page after blessed page - any will do, be it loose-leaf or Post-it or napkin. There is always something to be said, but never aloud.

His hands never quite adapted to a keyboard. He frequently frowns as he checks and re-checks where his fingers have landed, their length forcing them away from home row up to the numbers he so abhors. And so he sighs, closes the computer, and picks up his pen again.

He cramps up after a couple dozen pages sometimes. He comes to you with tears rolling down his cheeks and his digits frozen in a clamp. He cannot speak without his beloved written words, and so you take his hands and rub them between your own, coaxing them out of their contorted state. You note the softness of his palms and wrist, the sandpaper that makes up his fingertips. You kiss each and every one - you don’t mind, with lips so often chapped as your own. You’re used to your own roughness, to your own bluntness. And he half-smiles, because he knows you try to cast your coarseness aside for him, your fragile little angel.

The only thing more beautiful than his hands is the words that flow from them.

His voice dips and flows and soars like a sparrow, flitting back and forth and loop-de-looping in your chest. Or is that your heart? Somehow, when he lets you read his work, you don’t know the difference.

All you do know is that he is yours, and you could never be more thankful to have been blessed with a more gorgeous person, a more beautiful mind, a more perfect soul.

**Author's Note:**

> This took about 7 minutes to write at 1:30 in the morning. I still haven't determined if I like it or not.
> 
> For those of you who do not know me, I'm meepbeep (AKA Melissa). I have a tumblr (meep-beep.tumblr.com) where I reblog Les Miserables, Homestuck, Harry Potter, and A;TLA a lot. If you want to know any personal details about me, feel free to send me a message, and don't be afraid to follow me!


End file.
